


as you are

by serpentkinglink



Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - No Girlfriends/No Wives, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Holding Hands, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scars, Self-Worth Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-18 22:55:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22034524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serpentkinglink/pseuds/serpentkinglink
Summary: After being tortured and held prisoner for 14 months, Mike comes home.
Relationships: Mike Criscimagna/Alex Punch, Mike Criscimagna/Rhett McLaughlin (mentioned), Rhett McLaughlin/Link Neal (mentioned)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	as you are

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Restricted Work] by [junkster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/junkster/pseuds/junkster). Log in to view. 



> For junkster, who dragged me onto this ship and hoisted the sails. 
> 
> Takes place right after [My Beloved Monster and Me, We Go Everywhere Together](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21631801). Though you don't necessarily need to read that fic first to understand this one, it would provide a lot more context (and also it's an amazing fic, so you won't regret reading it!) 
> 
> Mind the tags, please. While nothing is explicit, there are hints/non-graphic references to what happened to Mike throughout.

“It’s not much,” Alex murmurs, closing the door behind him. 

The apartment is small, one bedroom with a kitchen that spills out into the living room. The furniture is mismatched and worn; the tall lamp in the corner is the same one they had in their apartment in Los Angeles, lampshade ripped nearly in half from the time they stumbled home exhausted after a mission and knocked it over. 

But it’s the smell that gets Mike the most. 

It smells like Alex. It smells like _home_. 

“It’s perfect,” Mike croaks, throat tight. He’s lightheaded, and things have taken on a dreamy quality. He’s half expecting to wake up at any moment to find out this was all a dream; it's something a fever-addled brain might come up with to try and escape its present surroundings. 

Maybe he’s dying. But if this is death then he must have conned his way into heaven after all, because spending an eternity with Alex is all he's ever wanted. 

Alex settles a gentle hand on Mike’s shoulder, grounding him. His large palm is warm, even through the barrier of Mike's hoodie. 

“Come on, you’re exhausted. Do you wanna shower? Eat? Sleep?”

Mike blinks, trying to get his sluggish brain to work and say something, _anything,_ so that Alex will stop looking at him with that pitying gaze. A few days ago, Mike couldn’t even eat without permission; now, the options for what he’s allowed to do are limitless. Being presented with options is overwhelming; _freedom_ is overwhelming.

“I—“ Mike says, voice cracking, head buzzing. He licks his chapped lips. He can’t remember the question. 

“Bed—yes or no?” Alex says gently, god bless him. Filtering it all down to one easy word answer for Mike to respond to. Like a child. 

“Yes,” Mike says, quietly embarrassed. He still smells like smoke and blood. He wants to say as much— _I don’t want to get your bed dirty_ —but Alex is already grabbing his hand and tugging him towards the bedroom. 

The inside of Alex’s room is dark, and for just a split second Mike’s heart leaps into his throat, and he’s back there, back in that cave of a basement—

Alex turns on the bedside lamp, washing the room in warm, yellow light. 

Mike takes a deep breath, letting his eyes adjust. He’s here with Alex. He’s safe. 

Alex’s bed is messy and undone, dark maroon covers flipped back. The rest of the room is the same way, casually cluttered, and so very _Alex_. Mike lets his focus bounce around the room--from Alex’s record collection in the corner, to his open laptop on the desk, to the dirty t shirts on the floor around the hamper. 

“Sorry, it’s kind of a mess in here,” Alex mumbles, shedding his coat and tossing it onto the hanging rack, as if Mike hasn’t lived with him before and experienced all his best and worst living habits firsthand. Well, technically, he hasn’t in a while. Not here, not since they shared an apartment in Los Angeles.

It feels like lifetimes ago. 

Alex takes off his sweater next, then the t shirt underneath, going over to his dresser to throw on something ratty—an old sleeveless shirt with a rip down one of the underarms. Mike watches the pale, smooth expanse of his back as he does, the sinewy muscles bunching underneath the skin. He’s lost weight since Mike’s last seen him. He looks older, too. 

“Make yourself at home,” Alex says, sighing as he slips out of his jeans and into sweats. When he turns around, he is the Alex that Mike remembers, and it makes him _ache_. Alex looks so normal. Sit on the couch and watch TV normal. Cuddle together in bed while reading a book normal. Kisses and soapy handjobs in the shower normal. 

Mike’s missed him so damn much. 

And Alex is staring at him again. Waiting. 

“I don’t...I don’t have clothes to change into,” Mike mumbles. He’s wearing nothing underneath the borrowed hoodie and sweatpants. He could sleep naked...but suddenly he’s terrified of stripping down. 

He’s been naked in front of Alex hundreds of times, has let Alex see and touch parts of him that no one else ever has (no one else _had_ , until recently). But his body is different now. Emaciated and torn up. _Tainted_. 

Unbidden, sense memories flood in like a tidal wave. Suddenly, his mouth is sour with bile. 

“Bathroom—“ 

Alex quickly points to a door on the far side of the bedroom. 

When Mike comes back to awareness, his knees are aching. 

He’s kneeling in front of the toilet, dry heaving and throwing up the little bit of water he’d drank in the car on the way from the airport. Wave after wave of nausea threatens to turn him inside out. 

When his body is done rejecting the nothingness in his stomach, Mike spits and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. He hurts everywhere, indiscriminately. His ribs ache, his shoulders hurt, his head feels like it’s being cleaved in two. 

He can sense Alex hovering in the doorjamb, concerned. 

Mike doesn’t want to see whatever expression is there. Sorrow, maybe. Pity, probably. His poor, broken boyfriend who can’t keep his shit together. Who’s scared of taking off his clothes in front of him. _Pathetic_. 

It had been different, earlier, when it was just him and Rhett. Rhett’s body is just as much of a roadmap of violence as his. But Alex is flawless, all soft skin and downy hair, human through and through. Not stitched up and held together with catgut and industrial strength steel implants. 

Mike can’t bring himself to meet Alex’s eyes. He stays where he is, curled around the toilet. He wonders if Alex would be okay with him staying here forever.

“I’ll make you some tea,” Alex says quietly after a moment, and disappears, leaving Mike alone in the bathroom. 

Mike presses his forehead against the cool porcelain, swallowing. His chest hurts from heaving. The tiles are cold and hard on his knees. 

_The ground, dirt floors, his kneecaps white-hot pain—they’re watching him in shifts, forcing him to kneel on stones. He won’t be able to walk after this, he’ll have to crawl his way out—_

Mike gets up quickly on shaking legs and flushes the toilet. He focuses on something else, _anything_ else, to keep the memories at bay. He could never predict when they were going to torture him; it seemed to happen whenever they were bored, or whenever a deal had gone south. He was their source of entertainment and punching bag, all in one. 

The bathroom is painted blue-grey. A slow, roiling shade, like the ocean on a stormy night. There is a vase of dried flowers next to the sink—thin, reedy lavender stalks. No photos or wall decorations, though there is a small eyeglass mounted above the sink. Mike remembers it well—knows that if he were to look through it, he’d see nothing but fractal shapes. They’d found it while on a mission in Greece. It was an old historic spyglass that had belonged to some long-dead captain, and had shattered during the ensuing shoot out as they escaped the southern coast. They’d kept it as a souvenir, evidence of yet another successful mission where they’d made it out by the skin of their teeth. 

Mike walks mechanically over to the sink and washes his hands. He keeps his head down, the mirror above the sink taunting him.

When he goes to dry his hands he catches a glimpse of himself—and it’s enough to make him flinch.

He looks gaunt and ill, even underneath his large beard. They hadn’t given him scissors or a razor while he was in captivity. Smart of them. He’s turned paper clips into weapons before. 

He runs fingers through his thick, dark beard. It’s scraggly and rough to the touch. 

Suddenly he wants it gone. It’s evidence of the time he spent underground in that godforsaken basement, and he can’t stand it anymore. 

He shuts the bathroom door. 

His hands move of their own accord, opening drawer after drawer until—there, in the bottom drawer, he finds a pair of blunt scissors. 

Mike tugs at his beard, and begins to cut. Hair falls into the sink, sticking to the bowl.

Mike cuts until the beard hair is too short to trim with scissors. And then he goes for the hair on his head, which has grown out nearly to his shoulders. 

He slices at it, cutting it back to ear length, combing his hair this way and that, styling it to the best he can of what he looked like before. Before he became inhuman. Before he became an animal hellbent on survival. _Eat. Sleep. Shit. Cower, tail between your legs. Lick your wounds. Don’t fight back. Escape. Escape. Escape._

When he glances back up, a skeleton stares back at him, cheeks hollowed out, dark eyes a thousand miles away. He used to be someone people wanted to look at. Now, he looks more dead than alive, which seems fitting. He _feels_ more dead than alive, like a ghost going through the motions of living. 

At least outwardly, he almost looks like the Mike of a year ago, the Mike who could finish a mission and then go home, order pizza with his boyfriend and cuddle on the couch and laugh at whatever shitty reality tv was on that night. 

There’s a gentle knock at the door. 

“Mike?” 

“Gimme a second,” Mike croaks, the response slightly delayed. He’s still staring at his reflection. It feels like he’s looking in a funhouse mirror—it’s him, but stretched out and angular. Cheekbones sharp as knives, eyes too big for his head. 

“Everything okay?” There’s a tinge of panic in Alex’s voice; Mike realizes belatedly what it must seem like. Someone with severe PTSD locking themselves in the bathroom, with easy access to scissors? 

He opens the door quickly, nearly smacking Alex in the face in the process. 

Alex is standing there with a mug of tea, relief palpable when he sees that Mike is alright. There’s surprise there, too. 

“Your beard...your hair...”

“Yeah,” Mike says, scrubbing a hand through his thick hair. He can feel the unevenness of the cut, but at least it’s short now. He feels physically lighter. 

“Looks good,” Alex says softly, smiling a little. Mike feels the corners of his own mouth tug up, a helpless response. Alex has always had that effect on him. 

“Thanks,” he murmurs, as Alex hands over the steaming mug of tea. The smell is aromatic, chamomile and honey. He takes a sip, and it’s scalding hot, a line of heat down his throat. It’s exactly what he needs. 

“You can borrow my clothes, if you want. And we can go, or I can go, first thing in the morning to buy you some of your own,” Alex says, all in one nervous breath. Like maybe if he says the wrong thing Mike is going to freak out again. 

Mike nods, hard, trying not to let his mind slip back to that place. 

“Yours. I wanna wear yours.” 

“Okay,” Alex says eagerly. He rushes to his dresser to grab sweatpants, a t shirt, and a pair of underwear, handing them over to Mike with an expression that makes him look like a puppy bringing his owner a stick. He’s trying so hard to make Mike feel comfortable, ever the sweetheart. It makes Mike feel all the more guilty—he’s not sure what he’s done to deserve this kindness.

“Thank you.” 

“‘Course, Mike,” Alex says softly.

Mike takes the clothes and closes the bathroom door once again to change. 

Mike strips quickly and efficiently, disrobing without lingering or looking down at his body. It’s just a body. That’s it. It’s there to serve a function, and right now that function is to get into Alex’s clothes. 

Alex’s clothes are big on him, comfortably so, and clean. Mike buries his nose into the collar of the sweater and breathes in, deep as he can, not caring that his broken ribs twinge in protest. The smell of Alex grounds him, sweat and old spice and clean laundry. 

He stands and breathes and breathes and breathes. 

*** 

Alex is already in bed when Mike re-emerges from the bathroom. He looks better. Less pallid, less spooked. 

Even still, the t shirt hangs off his skinny form. His arms are pale and stick thin, elbows prominent because of how little muscle tone there is in his biceps and forearms. His veins snake their way down his arm, puffy with dehydration. Some scars, Alex recognizes. Most of them, he doesn’t. 

Alex sucks in a breath. Mike’s been through a lot of damage before. But he’s never looked like this. Like a stiff wind could knock him over 

Alex lifts the covers, welcoming him in. When Mike doesn’t move, Alex winces. 

“You can have the bed, I’ll take the couch in the living room. I should have asked, I shouldn’t have just assumed—“ Alex babbles. _Fuck_ , he just can’t seem to get it right with Mike. He should have realized that Mike wanted space. It makes sense, after what he’s been through. 

They’ve been through a lot together, but that’s just it. It’s always been _together_. Mike was alone this time, for over a year. It’s a miracle he made it back in one piece. It’s a miracle he made it back at all.

“No,” Mike croaks, but he doesn’t move. He’s still standing there in the middle of the room, lost and uncertain. 

Right. _Ask yes or no questions. Keep it simple._ A tip that Link had given Alex, after Rhett had gone through something similar, and hadn’t been able to function for a while. Make decisions easy for him. 

“Do you want the bed?” Alex asks softly. 

A beat. 

“Yes.” 

“Okay,” Alex says, already halfway out of the bed. But before his feet have even hit the floor Mike’s stumbling forward, eyes wide and panicked. 

“Stay. Please.” 

“You want me to stay with you?” 

Mike swallows and gives a tiny nod. Like he’s scared Alex might say no. 

Alex scooches as far as he can to the other side and waits as Mike shuffles the few steps to the edge of the bed and crawls in. 

Alex reaches over and turns out the lamp on the bedside table, plunging them into darkness. 

There’s space between their bodies, more space than there’s ever been between them. A sliver of moonlight shines in through the window. Mike’s eyes are dark, depthless pools. 

Alex wants so badly to close the distance between them, lean over and kiss those soft lips. He used to be able to read all of Mike’s feelings, take one look at his face and just know. But Mike’s spent the last year making himself as small a target as possible against his captors, burying all emotions deep so they wouldn’t be able to exploit them. 

Alex doesn’t know what Mike’s thinking anymore, and it’s killing him. 

“What did they do to you,” Alex whispers, in the space between them.

Mike takes in a breath, and when he lets it go, he shatters. 

“Everything,” he whispers, and then he’s weeping. Thin, reedy, broken animal sounds. 

Alex’s heart splinters in his chest. 

“Come here,” Alex whispers, and Mike buries himself in Alex’s embrace. 

Alex isn’t sure if he’s ever held anything more delicate. He can feel the notches of Mike’s spine through his shirt, his hollow chest, the concavity of his stomach. It’s wrong, so wrong. 

Mike trembles in his arms, clinging tight. Face buried in Alex’s chest as he shakes apart. 

“You’re okay, you’re okay,” Alex reassures in a litany, his words slurring into a stream of comfort. His eyes sting with tears, hot and wet, sliding down his cheeks and soaking into Mike’s hair. 

_Mike_ , he thinks. _Mike_. 

***

Alex comes into wakefulness slow. Bright rays of sunlight push in through the blinds. There’s a warm weight on his chest, a mop of familiar brown hair. 

For one bleary moment, everything is as it should be. 

It’s a Sunday morning. They’ll wake up late, maybe fuck, lazy and slow. Toes curling under tangled sheets, warm skin and wet kisses. Mike will come first, back arching off the mattress, eyelids fluttering, a curse on his lips. Alex will come after, and they’ll cuddle until one of them gets hungry enough to meander to the kitchen and start pancakes. 

And then everything comes rushing back. Alex remembers that Mike died, and matches that with the realization that Mike is actually alive, and in his arms. 

This is real. 

Gratefulness replaces the panic rushing through him—he swallows the hard lump in his throat. 

In his arms, Mike shifts, restless. He's awake. Alex knows what he sounds like when he’s asleep, and this isn’t it.

How long has Mike been feigning sleep? Had Mike slept at all last night, after Alex cried himself to sleep? Alex feels a pang of guilt. He’s supposed to be there for Mike, not the other way around. 

“I can hear you thinking,” Mike mumbles, against Alex’s chest. A chuckle bubbles out of Alex, unbidden. 

Mike turns in his arms, just a little, turning to look at him. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Alex says, but he can’t help the stupid smile he knows is on his face, “it’s just. I dunno. I’m surprised, but I shouldn’t be.” 

Mike smiles too, slow and tentative and unsure. 

“I don’t know what that means.” 

"You still know me so well,” Alex says, and very carefully leans down and presses a kiss to Mike’s forehead, "and I missed you." 

Mike shivers. 

Alex opens his mouth to apologize—

“Again,” Mike whispers. 

Alex looks down at him in wonder, then obliges, pressing a kiss to that same spot, Mike’s skin warm under his lips.

“I missed you,” Alex repeats reverently. 

“Again.” 

Alex kisses his forehead. His temple. Each of his closed eyelids.

“I missed you...I missed you...I missed you...”

Mike’s trembling by the time Alex stops, lips just a hair's breadth away from Mike’s. Alex wants him—but he wants Mike to want this too. He’s not going to push anything on Mike that he’s not ready for. Like hell Alex is going to be the one to take away his autonomy again. 

Mike’s breathing fast and uneven, like a frightened bird. 

When Mike doesn’t make a motion to close the distance, Alex moves to pull away. 

Mike _whimpers_. 

Alex swears, anxiety pulsing through him. He’d pushed too hard. He shouldn’t have pushed Mike like that—the man just crawled out of a hole in the earth, for god's sake. 

“Mike, I’m sorry, man—“

“—Alex...please,” Mike whispers, “don’t...don’t tease me. If you don’t want me anymore, I get it. I’m...FUBAR. But please...”

Mike peels himself out of Alex’s arms so he can sit up and look Alex in the eye—Mike’s eyes are wet, unshed tears softening those dark eyes. 

Alex reaches out—an automatic reaction to seeing Mike in distress—and takes his hand. 

Mike?” 

“Please...” Mike says, voice strained and fragile. He can’t seem to look Alex in the eye. Alex rubs his thumb over Mike’s knuckles. They’re rough to the touch, scarred over. Alex wants to kiss them. 

“I’m...fucked up,” Mike swallows. 

“I am too, man.” 

“No, I mean,” Mike agonizes, brow furrowing in frustration. Alex squeezes his hand gently, empathetically. 

“...I don’t. I don’t look the way I used to. I don’t _feel_ the way I used to. My body...it’s...” Mike struggles, and Alex can see the beginnings of a panic attack creeping in. 

“Mike...” Alex murmurs, “it’s okay. Really. More than okay. I don’t only love you for the way you look. I love _you_ , man. Don’t apologize for what they did to you. It’s not your fault. You’re alive, and that’s enough.” 

“No, no, no. Listen! They,” Mike warbles. He’s swallowing hard, trying not to cry. Chewing on his dignity. 

Alex doesn’t need to know. Frankly, he doesn’t _want_ to know. Because part of him already does.

“Mike, stop, you don’t have to tell me—“

“They used me, okay? They ruined me.” 

Mike takes a shuddering breath and falls silent. 

He stares down at his hand in Alex’s, like he’s only just now realizing that they’re holding hands. He tries to pull away, but Alex holds fast. Tenacious. 

The silence between them is thick. Alex feels like the air’s been crushed out of his lungs—Mike’s head is still bowed. Shame written into the slump of his shoulders. Alex feels his stomach turn to ice. He'd suspected as much, but hadn't want to think about it--to consider the possibility that someone had hurt Mike in that way. But now the truth sits with them on the bed, cold and immutable. Mike had suffered, alone, for _fourteen months_ , in that place.

Alex wants to raise his captors from the dead just so he can murder them himself. 

But right now, he needs to focus on Mike. 

“Mike. Can you look at me, please?” 

The minutes of silence feel like eternities. But eventually Mike does. 

“I love you,” Alex says, firmly, his voice full of iron. "You don’t have to say it back. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. But I’ll listen to whatever you’d like to tell me.” 

Mike’s gaze flicks away, watery with the weight of those words. 

“What they did to you was cruel. Fucked up. But it doesn’t change how I feel about you,” Alex says, squeezing Mike’s hand. 

He counts the small, hesitant squeeze back as a victory. 

“I fucking love you. So much,” Alex keeps going, raw and cracked, “I’d love you even if there was nothing left of you to love. I loved you when I thought you’d turned to dust. I loved you the entire year you were gone. I was ready to love you for the rest of my life. And now, I’ll love you any way you want me to, if you’ll let me.” 

The words sink like gravity; Alex means all of it. 

Mike looks up and he's—Mike is _wrecked_. 

“But earlier...”

“Earlier?” Alex murmurs. 

“When you. When you didn’t kiss me...”

It takes a second to sink in. Then—

“Oh. My God, Mike, I didn’t kiss you because I didn’t know if you’d be okay with it. Not because I don’t want you. God, Mike, I want you so much, you don’t even know—“

Mike’s eyes are wide as saucers. He surges forward—

His lips are soft and hesitant on Alex’s. Chapped and clumsy. 

It’s perfect. 

Alex kisses back, letting him in. Letting Mike relearn the way they used to curl their tongues together, the way they liked to nip at each other, just a hint of rough with the sweet.

Alex feels a slow, mellow heat flare in his chest. Not a roaring fire; more like embers that burn and keep burning, for hours and hours and hours. 

When they separate for air, Mike’s face is flushed with warmth. His eyes are dark, and peaceful.

“I love you,” he murmurs. 

“Love you too, Mike,” Alex says, grinning. 

Mike reaches for a hug, and Alex pulls him in. Slotting their bodies together to burrow deeper into the blankets. 

They stay like that, even as sunlight streams in through the blinds. 

Alex feels Mike’s heart beat in time with his own, strong and alive. 

He thinks _my god. My god._

***

**Author's Note:**

> find me [@serpentkinglink](https://serpentkinglink.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


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